Sycamore Row jb-2

by John Grisham

  “I can’t help you there, Mr. Brigance. I’ve never lived there. I assure you, though, there’s no one here in Milburn County worth even a fraction of that.”

  “It’s the rural South.”

  “Indeed it is. That’s the greatness of Seth’s story. He woke up one day at the age of sixty and said I’m broke, tired of being broke, and damned if I’m not gonna make something. He got lucky on his first two deals, then discovered the beauty of using other people’s money. He mortgaged his own house and land a dozen times. Talk about brass balls.”

  The waitress delivered oatmeal for Mr. Amburgh and scrambled eggs for Jake. As they sprinkled salt and sugar, Amburgh asked, “Did he cut out his kids?”

  “He did.”

  A smile, a nod, no surprise.

  “You expected this?” Jake asked.

  “I expect nothing, Mr. Brigance, and nothing surprises me,” he replied smugly.

  “I have a surprise for you,” Jake said. “He cut out both of his kids, both of his ex-wives, who, by the way, are not entitled to anything, and he cut out everybody else except for his long-lost brother, Ancil, who’s probably dead, but if not gets 5 percent, his church, also on board at 5, which leaves a grand total of 90 percent left to his black housekeeper of three years, one Lettie Lang.”

  Amburgh stopped chewing as his jaws sagged and his eyes squinted. Deep wrinkles broke out across his forehead.

  “Don’t tell me you’re not surprised,” Jake said, victorious, then tossed back a forkful of eggs.

  Amburgh took a deep breath and reached out an empty hand. Jake pulled a copy of the will out of a pocket and gave it to him. The deep wrinkles hardened as both pages were read. He began to shake his head in disbelief. He read it a second time, then folded it and placed it aside.

  “Did you by chance know Lettie Lang?” Jake asked.

  “Never met her. I’ve never seen Seth’s home, Mr. Brigance. Never heard him say a word about it, really, or about anyone who worked there. Seth kept things in compartments, most of which were off-limits to everyone. Do you know this woman?”

  “I met her yesterday for the first time. She’ll be in my office this afternoon.”

  With his fingertips, Amburgh slowly pushed the platter and bowl away; breakfast was over, the appetite gone. “Why would he do this, Mr. Brigance?”

  “I was thinking of asking you the same question.”

  “Well, it obviously makes no sense, and that’s why this will is in serious trouble. He was out of his mind. You can’t make a valid will if you lack testamentary capacity.”

  “Of course not, but little is clear right now. On the one hand, he seems to have planned his death in meticulous detail, as if he knew exactly what he was doing. On the other hand, leaving it all to his housekeeper is hard to figure.”

  “Unless she influenced him.”

  “I’m sure that’ll be argued.”

  Amburgh reached for a pocket and said, “Mind if I smoke?”

  “No.”

  He lit a menthol and flicked ashes into his oatmeal. His mind was spinning, nothing made sense. Finally, he said, “I’m not sure I have the stomach for this, Mr. Brigance. I may be named as the executor, but that doesn’t mean I have to serve.”

  “You said you were a lawyer once. You sound like it.”

  “In the day, I was a small-town hack, same as a million others. Over in Alabama, but probate laws don’t vary much from state to state.”

  “You’re right-you don’t have to serve as executor.”

  “Who would want to get involved in this mess?”

  Me, for one, thought Jake, but he bit his tongue. The waitress cleared the table and topped off the coffee cups. Amburgh read the will again and lit another cigarette. When he’d emptied his lungs, he said, “Okay, Mr. Brigance, allow me to think out loud. Seth mentions a prior will, one prepared last year by the Rush law firm in Tupelo. I know those guys and it’s safe to assume that will is much thicker, much smarter, and put together in such a way as to take advantage of proper estate tax planning, gift exclusions, generation-skipping transfers, the whole nine yards, okay, whatever is available to protect the estate and legally avoid as much in taxes as possible. Are you with me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then, at the last minute, Seth prepares this crude document that revokes the proper will, leaves virtually everything to his black housekeeper, and guarantees that much of what he’s trying to give away will be eaten up in estate taxes. Still with me?”

  “About 50 percent will go for taxes,” Jake said.

  “Half, blown away just like that. Does that sound like a man who’s thinking clearly, Mr. Brigance?”

  It did not, though Jake was not ready to yield an inch. He said, “I’m sure that argument will be made in court, Mr. Amburgh. My job is to probate the estate and pursue the wishes of my client.”

  “Spoken like a true lawyer.”

  “Thank you. Are you gonna serve as the executor?”

  “Will I get paid?”

  “Yes, there will be a fee, to be approved by the judge.”

  “How much time will be involved?”

  “Could be a lot. If there is a will contest, which seems likely, we could be in court for hours, for days. As executor, you’ll have to be there, listening to every witness.”

  “But, Mr. Brigance, I don’t like this will. I don’t approve of what Seth did. I have not seen the other will, the thick one, but I’m pretty damned certain I like it better. Why should I be an advocate for this slipshod, last-minute, handwritten piece of crap that gives everything to an undeserving black housekeeper who probably had too much influence over the old boy. Know what I mean?”

  Jake nodded slightly and frowned with great suspicion. After thirty minutes with this guy, he was fairly certain he didn’t want to spend the next year with him. Replacing an executor was generally no big deal, and Jake knew he could convince the judge that this guy needed to go. Amburgh glanced around again and said softly, “It makes no sense. Seth worked like a dog the last ten years of his life to build a fortune. He took enormous risks. He got lucky. And then, he dumps it all in the lap of some woman who didn’t have a damned thing to do with his success. Kinda makes me sick, Mr. Brigance. Sick and very suspicious.”

  “Then don’t serve as executor, Mr. Amburgh. I’m sure the court can find someone else to do the job.” Jake picked up the will, creased the folds, and stuck it back into his pocket. “But sleep on it. There’s no rush.”

  “When does the war start?”

  “Soon. The other lawyers will show up with the other will.”

  “Should be fascinating.”

  “Thanks for your time, Mr. Amburgh. Here’s my card.” Jake left his business card and a $5 bill on the table and hurried out. He sat in his car for a moment, thinking, trying to collect his thoughts and get his mind focused on a contested estate worth $20 million.

  A year earlier, Clanton had gossiped its way through a lawsuit over an insurance policy covering a fertilizer plant that had mysteriously burned to the ground. Its owner was a local shyster named Bobby Carl Leach, a shifty operator with a history of burned buildings and lawsuits. Fortunately, Jake was not involved in the litigation; he avoided Leach at all costs. But during the trial, it was revealed that Leach had a net worth of about $4 million. There was nothing liquid about his balance sheet, but when his liabilities were subtracted from his assets, there was an impressive figure for his equity. This had led to countless discussions and arguments over who, exactly, was the richest person in Ford County. The debates had raged over early morning coffee around the square, and in bars where bankers met after hours, and throughout the courthouse where lawyers huddled to exaggerate the latest testimony, all over town, literally.

  Bobby Carl, with $4 million, was certainly at the top of the list. The Wilbanks clan would have been had Lucien not squandered the family fortune decades earlier. Several farmers were mentioned, but only out of habit. They had “family money,” which, by
the late 1980s, meant they owned sections of land but struggled to pay their bills. A man named Willie Traynor had sold The Ford County Times eight years earlier for $1.5 million, and there were rumors he’d doubled his money in the stock market. However, few rumors about Willie had ever been taken seriously. A ninety-eight-year-old woman held bank stock worth $6 million. As the contest wore on, an anonymous list appeared in a court clerk’s office and was soon faxed all over town. It was cleverly labeled “Forbes Top Ten List of Richest Ford Countians.” Everybody had a copy, and this fueled the gossip. The list was edited, enlarged, detailed, amended, and modified and even fictionalized, but through it all there was no mention of Mr. Seth Hubbard.

  The town’s exercise in speculation went on with enthusiasm for several weeks before running out of gas. Not surprisingly, Jake had never seen his own name on the list.

  He chuckled to himself as he thought of Ms. Lettie Lang and her forthcoming and rather dramatic entry onto the list.

  9

  For her last day on the job Lettie arrived half an hour early, and she did so in the hopeless belief that such punctuality might impress Mr. Herschel and Mrs. Dafoe; that they might somehow reconsider and allow her to stay on. At 7:30, she parked her twelve-year-old Pontiac next to Mr. Seth’s pickup truck. She had stopped calling him Mr. Seth months earlier, when they were alone anyway. Around other people she used the “Mister,” but only for appearances. She took a deep breath and clutched the wheel and hated the thought of seeing those people again. They would be leaving soon, as soon as possible. She’d heard them gripe about being forced to spend two nights there. Their worlds back home were crumbling, and they were desperate to get away. Burying their father was such a nuisance. They despised Ford County.

  She had slept little. Mr. Brigance’s words “sizable portion of his estate” had rattled noisily around her brain throughout the night. She had not told Simeon. Perhaps she would later. Perhaps she would let Mr. Brigance do it. Simeon had badgered her about what the lawyer wanted, what he’d said, but Lettie had been too bewildered and too frightened to try and explain anything. And how could she explain what she didn’t understand? As confused as she was, Lettie knew the most foolish thing she could do was to believe in a positive outcome. The day she saw any money would be the day she believed, and not a moment before.

  The kitchen door off the garage was unlocked. Lettie entered quietly and paused to listen for sounds of activity. The television was on in the den. Coffee was brewing on the counter. She coughed as loudly as possible, and a voice called, “Is that you, Lettie?”

  “It is,” she said sweetly. She stepped into the den behind a fake smile and found Ian Dafoe on the sofa, still in his pajamas, surrounded by paperwork, lost in the details of some looming deal.

  “Good mornin’, Mr. Dafoe,” she said.

  “Good morning, Lettie,” he replied with a smile. “How are you?”

  “Fine, thanks, and you?”

  “As well as can be expected. Up most of the night with this,” he said, sweeping an arm over his beloved paperwork, as if she knew exactly what it all meant. “Get me some coffee, would you? Black.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Lettie took him coffee, which he accepted without a nod or a word, lost once more in his deal. She returned to the kitchen, poured herself some coffee, and when she opened the refrigerator to get the cream she saw a bottle of vodka, almost empty. She had never seen liquor in the house; Seth didn’t keep it. Once a month he brought home a few beers, stuck them in the fridge, and then usually forgot about them.

  The sink was full of dirty dishes-how could they possibly be expected to load the dishwasher with a servant on the payroll? Lettie got busy with the cleaning, and presently Mr. Dafoe stopped at the door and said, “I think I’ll get a shower now. Ramona is not feeling well, probably caught a cold.”

  Cold or vodka? Lettie thought. But she said, “I’m sorry. Can I do anything for her?”

  “Not really. But some breakfast would be nice, eggs and bacon. Scrambled for me, not sure about Herschel.”

  “I’ll ask him.”

  Since they were leaving, as was the servant, and since the house was about to be locked up, then sold or somehow disposed of, Lettie decided to clean out the pantry and refrigerator. She fried bacon and sausage, whipped up pancakes, scrambled eggs and made omelets and cheese grits and warmed up store-bought biscuits, Seth’s favorite brand. The table was covered with steaming bowls and platters when the three sat down for breakfast, complaining the entire time about all the food and fuss. But they ate. Ramona, puffy-eyed and red-faced and unwilling to say much, seemed to especially crave the grease. Lettie hung around for a few minutes, properly serving them, and the mood was tense. She suspected they’d had a rough night, drinking and arguing and trying to survive one last night in a house they hated. She eased back into the bedrooms, happy to see their bags were packed.

  From the shadows, she heard Herschel and Ian discussing a visit by the lawyers. Ian argued it was easier for the lawyers to come to Seth’s house than for the three of them to troop over to Tupelo.

  “Damned right they can come to us,” Ian said. “They’ll be here at ten.”

  “Okay, okay,” Herschel conceded, then they lowered their voices.

  After breakfast, as Lettie cleared the table and stacked the dishes, the three moved outdoors again, to the patio where they settled around the picnic table and drank their coffee in the morning sun. Ramona seemed to perk up. Lettie, who lived with a drunk, figured that most mornings started slow for Mrs. Dafoe. There was laughter as they momentarily shook off last night’s harsh words, whatever they were.

  The doorbell rang; it was a locksmith from Clanton. Herschel showed him around and explained loudly, for the benefit of Lettie, that they wanted new locks on the home’s four exterior doors. As the man went to work, starting with the front door, Herschel stopped in the kitchen and said, “We’re getting all new locks, Lettie, so the old keys won’t work.”

  “I’ve never had a key,” she said with an edge because she’d already said it once.

  “Right,” Herschel replied, not believing. “We’ll leave one key with Calvin down the road, and we’ll keep the others. I suspect I’ll be back from time to time to check on things.”

  Whatever, Lettie thought, but she said, “I’ll be happy to come over and clean the place whenever you want. Calvin can let me in.”

  “Won’t be necessary, but thanks. We’re meeting with the lawyers at ten o’clock, here, so make some fresh coffee. After that we’ll be leaving for home. I’m afraid we won’t be needing you after that, Lettie. Sorry, but Dad’s death changes everything.”

  She clenched her jaws and said, “I understand.”

  “How often did he pay you?”

  “Every Friday, for forty hours.”

  “And he paid you last Friday?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So we owe you for Monday, Tuesday, and half of today, right?”

  “I suppose.”

  “At five bucks an hour.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “I still can’t believe he paid you that much,” Herschel said as he opened the door and walked outside onto the patio.

  Lettie was stripping the beds when the lawyers arrived. In spite of the dark suits and serious faces, they might as well have been Santa Claus delivering sacks of toys to well-behaved children. In the moments before they pulled in to the driveway, Ramona, in heels and pearls and a dress much prettier than the one she’d worn to the funeral, peeked out the front window a dozen times. Ian, now in coat and tie, paced around the den, checking his watch. Herschel, clean shaven for the first time since arriving, was in and out of the kitchen door.

  In the past three days, Lettie had overheard enough to know that expectations were high. They did not know how much money old Seth had in the bank, but they were perceptive enough to believe something was there. And it was all a windfall anyway, right? The house and land alone were worth at leas
t half a million, according to Ian’s latest guess. How often are you lucky enough to split $500,000. And there was the lumber yard, and who knew what else?

  They gathered in the den. Three lawyers, three potential beneficiaries, all well dressed with perfect manners and light moods. The servant, in her best white cotton dress, served them coffee and cake and then retired into the shadows to listen.

  Grave condolences were offered by the lawyers. They had known Seth for several years and were great admirers. What a man. It was entirely possible the lawyers thought more of Seth than did his own children, but at that moment this was not contemplated. Herschel and Ramona performed well, even admirably, as the conversation passed through its first phase. Ian seemed bored with the preliminaries and ready to get down to business.

  “I have an idea,” Herschel said. “There could be other ears listening right now. It’s a lovely day, so let’s move outside to the patio where things are, shall I say, more confidential.”

  “Really, Herschel,” Ramona protested, but Ian was already standing. The group moved en masse through the kitchen and onto the patio where they re-situated around the picnic table. An hour earlier, Lettie, in anticipation, had cracked a bathroom window. She now sat on the edge of the bathtub and could hear better than ever.

  Mr. Lewis McGwyre popped open his heavy briefcase and removed a file. He passed around three copies of a multipage document and began: “Our firm prepared this for your father over a year ago. There’s a lot of boilerplate in there, sorry, but that’s always required.” Ramona, nervous and still red-eyed, said, “I’ll read it later. Please, just tell us what’s in the will.”

  “Very well,” Mr. McGwyre said. “To skin it all down, each of you, Herschel and Ramona, gets 40 percent of the estate. Some of it’s outright, some of it’s tied up in trusts, but the bottom line is that you will inherit 80 percent of Mr. Hubbard’s estate.”

  “And the other 20?” Ian demanded.